


supernova

by Rocamadour



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, M/M, Mentions of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:48:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocamadour/pseuds/Rocamadour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>supernovae are extremely luminous and cause a burst of radiation that often briefly outshines an entire galaxy, before fading from view over several weeks or months. During this short interval a supernova can radiate as much energy as the Sun is expected to emit over its entire life span.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	supernova

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [testycurmudgeon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/testyCurmudgeon/pseuds/testyCurmudgeon) for beta-ing this :)))))

He’s twelve and quiet, wearing bags under his brown eyes that make him look so much older than he really is.

This is how it all begins.

It’s the middle of winter. The cold is intense. Grantaire craves for the warmth of the sun bathing his body with joy. The snow falls beautifully from the sky, little snowflakes alighting on the pavement of the Parisian streets, sighs of longing dying in the silence of the cement.

This is the image of indifference.

He sits on the kitchen counter, looking through the window, a sketchbook he stole from his sister in his tiny hands. The pencil dances between his fingers, the graphite colouring and playing games on his skin as he watches the snow falling outside and draws what it looks like the city.  
Grantaire frowns.

He doesn’t like it.

He gives the drawing to his mother and she puts it on the refrigerator. She has bags under her eyes, too.

When his father gets home, he doesn’t compliment it like his mother did. Grantaire says nothing and goes to his room and stays silent, hearing the shouts from his parents and the murmur of his sister’s phone conversation in the room next to his.

This is him, refusing to care.

*  
*  
*

He’s fourteen and drunk, the night weighting heavily on his shoulders, watching as his father leaves the house. There’s a nebula. He’s eighteen and getting high, laying on the floor of someone’s basement, eight missed calls from his sister. There’s a meteor. He’s six and scared of thunderstorms, images of monsters crawling out from under the bed in his mind. There’s a star cluster.

He’s seventeen and painting a landscape in a big canvas, green melting with different shades of gray and brown and blue, a forest made out of oils and brushes. There’s a shooting star. He’s twenty and his faith is lost, lost in too many empty bottles, in the smoke of the cheap cigarettes he buys.

He’s twenty and he watches a blond man – ( _a boy_ , he corrects himself) yell about injustices and corruption and equality and he laughs at his face, and he doesn’t really believe in love but he keeps watching him anyway, keeps hanging onto every word he says.

(Grantaire doesn’t believe love can save him, and it won’t -- but there’s a nova going off inside of him)

*  
*  
*

Grantaire is ugly, knows that he is ugly, and embraces his ugliness with his crooked nose, too big ears and his always messy dark curls of hair.

He knows that his tongue is sharp and that sometimes people don’t like what he says, like when he’s at a meeting and exclaims that revolution is useless unless you change human nature and Enjolras, beautiful Enjolras, with a grimace on his red lips gives him a look and the butterflies in his stomach wake up, little insects trapped inside his body, flying and flying and flying, and surviving no matter how much wine Grantaire drinks to kill them.

“You’re drunk”, Enjolras points out but he’s always drunk.

Grantaire laughs and it’s a horrible bitter sound. He laughs because if he doesn’t he might cry and he doesn’t want Enjolras to see him like that, so pathetic, so wretched and useless, so pitiable. He laughs because it’s ironically funny and he appreciates dark humour.

Enjolras doesn’t like him and so Grantaire laughs.

“It doesn’t mean I’m wrong”

Grantaire can feel how Enjolras is getting incalescent, traces of the flares inside him burning in his eyes, decomposing his marble face into pure emotion. He likes when it happens, because it means that this boy is not a rock -- not a fine statute, but a human who is capable of feeling such conviction and passion that he could burn the whole world down.

He imagines what it would be like to have that kind of emotion directed toward him instead of disdain and wonders if Enjolras would burn him down too.

(Indeed he would, but he likes to pretend that he doesn’t know the answer)

“Grantaire” he says, and suddenly his voice sounds worn-out, tired. And Grantaire thinks that maybe, maybe it could be _something_.

“Yes, my lord?”

It’s not.

*  
*  
*

At twenty-one, he finds himself with a broken nose and blood all over his face. His left eye is getting purple and purple and he’s sure he has at least one broken rib.

There is a black hole inside his chest.

The other guy is almost intact and punches him again and again, until all Grantaire can feel is the pain – pain, pain, pain, and more pain invading all of his senses.  
It’s a relief.

There’s an echo on the back of his head that says _you’re not enough_ , a punch, _you’re not enough_ , a punch, _you’re not enough_ , a punch. He’s not even fighting back. He doesn’t have the energy, the vigour, the sense of self preservation. 

“What the hell happened to you?” someone asks him the morning after.

He thinks _life_.

He says “nothing” and the days keep going on.

*  
*  
*

There is a man and there is a cliff and there are golden tones mixed up with red and bronze and yellow. There’s a sun too, and a sea, because Icarus needs somewhere to drown when he eventually falls.

There is this image inside Grantaire’s head that won’t leave him alone, he dreams about it a couple of times, it haunts him, chases him. He doesn’t run away from it. He can’t.  
Instead, he paints. He feels the soft caresses of the brushes against a white canvas full of hopelessness and it relaxes him. The colours are seducing him, inviting him to forget about everything else and relax in this forgotten lost beach in the middle of his mind. He paints without thinking about catastrophes and disasters and failure. He paints like he’s making love to art.

There is a man ( _a boy, Grantaire would say_ ) and there is a door that opens without making any sound. There is a curious pair of eyes and a slightly guilty feeling of intruding on something private.

There is Enjolras and there is Grantaire and there is the smell of turpentine. 

There is a clock that is ticking somewhere, counting twelve minutes before Grantaire realises he is not alone and asks him “how did you get in?” with a frown on his face.

Enjolras ignores his question and points to the unfinished wet canvas, “It’s beautiful”, and the idiot is impressed and Grantaire wants to yell at him, tell him to go away, wants him gone for a couple of hours, because somehow Enjolras’ presence is always there, and no matter what he does or where he is, it is always there.

Art is supposed to be Grantaire’s refugee from everything, including Enjolras -- _especially_ from him.

Grantaire seriously considers throwing paint on his face.

“What are you doing here?” he tries again, and then he realises that he’s standing on a cliff too, like Icarus, about to launch himself to the sun and _what a stupid cliché it is_ , he thinks, _what a fucking stupid cliché._

Really, he should know better than this.

“I was worried” Enjolras says casually, but sounds apprehensive and it’s weird, because Enjolras is many, many things, but hesitant is not one.

“Why?” he asks suspicious and narrowing his eyes.

“Because” he begins and stops like he’s unsure, like he’s thinking what to say, which words use. “You’ve been distant lately” he finally says and _oh._

Something inside his chest jumps out, but he has gotten pretty good at ignoring it.

“I’ve been busy, Enjolras”

“You’ve been painting?”

“Yes”

And drinking, and dancing, and fucking, and fencing, and boxing, and working a little bit, and doing everything he can to distract himself from the voices in his head that are always getting him down, the voices that whisper to him before he goes to sleep-- but he doesn’t say any of this.

“I have a life, you know” he says. “I have other things on my mind than your little club and your misled arguments”

 _I have a life that you can’t burn,_ he thinks, but that’s a lie too and there’s no point of saying any of this either.

“I know” Enjolras says defensively, tone cold and they both stay silent for a moment. “I’m sorry I interrupted you. I should go”

And he takes a step towards the door but before he leaves, Grantaire grabs his arm and stops him.

“No, I’m sorry” he sighs, but doesn’t let go Enjolras’ arm, his fingers burn at the contact. “That was unnecessarily rude. Stay”

He thinks that Enjolras is going to refuse, that he’s going to tell him that he has something to do; he doesn’t have the time, whatever. Instead, he’s surprised when Enjolras nods and reluctantly Grantaire lets him go so he can sit on a chair. Grantaire turns his back to him to focus at his painting again.

There are a couple of seconds of silence.

“It’s really beautiful” Enjolras says.

“You don’t need to compliment it, seriously”

“But I want to, because I do think it’s beautiful” Enjolras tells him, furrowing an eyebrow. 

“It’s you” Grantaire says without thinking and he regrets it immediately. He’s scared of looking at him, of making this moment so awkward he has probably ruined it. But that’s the way he is, always sabotaging himself.

He suddenly yearns for a cigarette.

“Do you see me like this? Do you think I’m Icarus? Am I going to fall?” Enjolras inquires in a rush, gravely and curious, looking at him with a serious expression.

“I think we’re all Icarus, but each of us with different suns. In the end, we’re all going to fall, that’s what life is about” he explains, slowly, before facing Enjolras. He has his thinking face on and he’s glad, Grantaire is so glad that he lets out another sigh. “You are going to get lost in that world you want so badly”

“And you?”

There is a pause and there is a sad smile. There is silence again.

“I’ll be right behind you”

Enjolras reaches his hand and intertwines their finger.

The next time they see each other, neither of them mentions it.

*  
*  
*

Grantaire is twenty-three. His sister is getting married, wearing a beautiful white dress that makes her look like a princess. His mother is there, too, and there is a kind smile on her face. There’s no sign of his father but that’s good, that’s actually really good.

When the ceremony is over, he shakes the hand of his new brother-in-law and tells him a joke. He hugs his sister and she leans into his ear and whispers “I’m sorry for not being there for you all of these years”

He holds her tightly, because she’s his sister and he loves her deeply and this is her day and she’s not supposed to look sad. “I know you are”

“Are you happy?” she asks.

“Are you?”

“Yes”

“That’s enough”

(The sun will rise again in the morning)

*  
*  
*

He is still twenty-three and covered in blood once more. His arm hurts and Enjolras is holding his hand all the ride from the rally to the hospital, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, Grantaire is going to evaporate in the wind.

It’s funny how people say that when you get shot, you can see all your life passing before your eyes. All Grantaire had seen was Enjolras’ shocked face before passing out.

“You’re an idiot” is the first thing Enjolras tells him when he wakes up. It takes him a while to him to adjust his vision to the white, clear walls of his hospital room. His wound doesn’t hurt too much now, but he’s high on painkillers and he’s kind of confused. Enjolras’ eyes are red and it makes him look like a fallen angel.

“You’re an idiot” he repeats, getting closer to him and carefully taking Grantaire’s hand with his own.

“I’m fine” he says, trying not to think about how their fingers fit so well together. “I’m fine”

“You’re not fine” Enjolras snaps at him. “You were shot, you were fucking shot and I thought I was going to lose you”

“He was aiming for you”

Enjolras takes his face between his hands and presses his mouth against his frenetically. It’s quick and doesn’t last long, but Grantaire’s heart is beating fast and perhaps he died, because there’s no other explanation to this, no other way this could be happening.

“I know” Enjolras says, taking the hand of his good arm again, their mouths still so close that Grantaire can breathe his essence “Don’t ever do that to me again”

But Grantaire doesn’t promise him, can’t promise him, because he would do it again without giving it a second thought, would give his life for this man (yes, a man) to conquer his dreams without even thinking about it.

So instead he presses their lips together once more and loses himself on Enjolras’ mouth.

*  
*  
*

Sometimes, Grantaire still explodes and everything he has inside of him flows away, like tiny particles of stars erupting and lighting everything around him except for himself, a cataclysm of existence that brings him down. He’s tired of it, and wishes he could stop it, stop expanding, stop increasing emotion, and stop the headache and the fear and everything.

But then Enjolras kisses him, and for a second he forgets all about it. In his eyes, he can see millions of constellations and love and acceptance, and he feels Enjolras’ hands on his body, caressing him softly, touching his deepest secrets with reverence -- and he wants to believe that everything is going to be all right, even if he knows it won’t, because Grantaire belongs to the shadows and there’s no way that Enjolras, golden and bright Enjolras, can take him away from them.

“I love you” Enjolras says and all Grantaire wants is to live in those three words forever, with Enjolras’ body pressed next to his.

And it’s a wonder how every time they’re making love, there is a supernova happening somewhere in the universe.


End file.
